


The Use of the Perfection Key

by Dangersocks



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bad Things Happen To Carlos, Carlos (Night Vale) is Carlos Ramon, Carlos Backstory, Gen, Kid Cecil, M/M, Mirrors, Post-Episode: e033 Cassette, Steve Carlsberg is a Jerk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.”<br/>― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Airman's Odyssey</p><p>Cecil takes, until there is only perfection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Use of the Perfection Key

A wind stirs the scrub grass and tussles Cecil Palmer’s hair. He is tense and standing in shorts and a t-shirt, holding his arms to his chest as if the waning day were cooler. It remains dry and hot in the fall but the way the sun casts shadows on the old, abandoned house leaves the boy repressing a shiver.

Something lives here.

But nobody lives here.

People once belonged here, reportedly having been doing so up to three weeks ago. Not a single resident of Night Vale remembers those people’s names though.

Cecil tries again to recall the faces of the kids that had attended his school but only finds his head turning away from the structure as if of his own accord. He stares at the horizon where the sun is an orb almost touching the ground. There is a deep blue behind him that stretches across the sky. At the horizon, there is a bright orange. Between the dark and the light, it seems that a few colours have been ignored -- forced from their normal spectrum.

Maybe there’s been a mistake with the atmosphere and perhaps Leonard Burton will mention the missing hues on his show tonight. Cecil shifts from one foot to the other, impatient with the hours remaining between now and later. What’s he even doing here, so far from home at this hour? He could miss the radio programme or…

“Hey, Cecil. Are you going to stand there all day?”

The voice comes from above him and Cecil snaps his eyes back to the solitary house on the edge of the sand wastes. It has broken windows like empty eye sockets, and through the second story eye is Steve Carlsberg. The boy leans out and motions for Cecil to hurry up.

“Did you check for mirrors?” Cecil calls back.

Steve tosses his hands up and says, “Yes. Of course. Come _on_!” It sounds very dismissive.

Cecil hesitates as Steve disappears again. He is not fully convinced that Steve takes the mirrors seriously -- though in fairness Cecil himself cannot explain why it is so important for him to avoid them. The young boy remains unmoving as crickets chirp and drying scrub rubs against his shins from the sides of the well worn path. The smell of sage is a small comfort against the sense of unease coiling in Cecil’s middle.

Steve reappears for an instant as if he knows Cecil has not budged and explains with exasperation, “I checked. Come on! Do you want to find out who lived here or not?”

And Cecil does come because he does want to know. This is just the kind of investigating a real reporter would do. And what is a future intern without a little risk to drive him or her?

The steps leading up to the front door sag under Cecil’s weight. The door is open though the frame is chipped and shredded, as if an axe had been taken to it. He shivers, this time in excitement. Maybe Cecil and Steve will discover something and Leonard will talk about it on his show. Maybe Cecil will get an interview.

With the potential for such a thing on his mind, Cecil lets his eyes adjust and peers at the heavy shapes that make up a kitchen. The floor tilts to the far corner, warped with water damage in some places. There is an old stove and a refrigerator that hangs open. The insides of the fridge are coated in black, and a broken bulb lies at the foot of the unusable appliance. Parts of the ceiling sag and old tiles litter the floor in crumbling piles. 

Cecil thinks he could learn a lot more about whether anything had happened here if he were a Scout or even that Apache kid. It is hard to see in the dim, fading daylight from the exposed windows. Perhaps they should have brought flashlights…

He has to step over a thick, metal pot with a rusted out bottom. He creeps through the kitchen, aware of each sound he produces.

Cecil hears a sound that is not of his doing from around a corner in a neighboring room. He stops, listening for that shifting, dragging noise again.

He is about to call for Steve when Cecil sees the old radio. The lighting is poorer here, but Cecil would recognize the outline of such a device in any scenario. He dreams of radios and transistor towers frequently. The radio is sitting on a metal shelf that seems more like it belongs in a tool shed. It is at the end of the hall in the next open space -- likely a living room with stairway access to above.

“Gosh,” he whispers. He pushes past an open door and continues down the hall to get a better look at the transistor radio. The ancient thing will not work, nor will it ever broadcast the invisible sounds in the air. Cecil knows this instinctively without having to test it. He knows without needing to take it home to attempt repairing it. Cecil understands in his bones that this tool is now and forever dead. But it is a vintage Royaltone AM/FM AFC “Instant Sound” radio from Hong Kong and this excites him. The gold cover is tarnished and a deep scratch disturbs a plastic-glass face but the device is still beautiful. “Neat,” he breathes.

There is a creaking from above and Cecil turns to find the skeleton of a stairwell. Steve is probably still on the second floor. With reluctance, Cecil tears away from the radio and peers at the sofa he instinctively does not wish to sit on, the broken chair and the pieces of cobweb hanging from the ceiling. There is a filthy doll with a caved in skull staring at a corner by the sofa. Its empty gaze stares at a swallows nest. Cecil thinks he sees some eyes peering at him from the tiny home within this home and they gleam a faint red. The windows here are also broken, and the orange sun makes everything purple and brown as it finally settles out of sight. It makes the radio’s gold cover shimmer wickedly and now Cecil can see the electrical cord dangling down, casting a shadow on the stained-wood wall behind the shelf. His fingers delicately pick up the electrical cord and he discovers it cut and fraying with its tiny copper wires tied into an intricate, almost unnoticeable noose. 

He purses his lips, feeling a thrill at the additional mystery. He imagines Leonard Burton asking him questions and this particular discovery being the catalyst that kicks off a great adventure. 

With renewed ambition, Cecil moves to approach the stairwell. He is thinking of where to place his feet in case the stairs are not stable. He is thinking about how he is being wise in deciding to leave the radio here, instead of planning to sneak it home later tonight. Cecil is thinking about how he has forgotten something important behind him when he sees the mirror.

Though oily and dark under a thick layer of dust, the mirror is still a mirror. This one is at the top of the stairs, ornately carved and hanging where the landing turns around a corner with the last several steps.

Cecil ducks down immediately, averting his gaze. He doesn’t think his reflection is visible but he also doesn’t look more closely to check. His heart skitters and Cecil exhales. He cannot go up, so he will come down and he will just stay on the ground floor and maybe just explore the basement.

Footsteps shift around upstairs. Cecil is about to call up to Steve when he hears footsteps below, as well. The room he had rushed passed…

Cecil bites his lip, unafraid. Of course he is unafraid. Street Cleaning Day had been a month ago and this is not nearly so frightening. It is just the mirror that has him off his game. Cecil swallows and takes two steps down. He knows that if he avoids the mirror near the top of the stairs he can handle anything else in this house.

Something moves, still in that room by the hall. It separates Cecil from the exit. He should have looked when he had first passed it. A good reporter always observes. He had become distracted by the Royaltone radio.

Lessons to learn for next time, he thinks. He’s fourteen. Fourteen-year-olds are allowed to make mistakes, no matter what his brother says.

Another step closer to the bottom of the stairs and suddenly Cecil recognizes a second mirror. It is pressed against the wall in a pile of debris near the opening of the hallway. Cecil ceases moving and breathing, having noticed it only through his movements as they subtly adjusted the environment around him. How had he avoided it upon rushing after the transistor radio?!

He swallows, because he will have to cross in front of it again and Cecil doesn’t know what that would mean. 

Coming here has been a mistake. Coming here has been a very big mistake. Cecil is stuck and he knows what they’ll tell his mom when he never comes home. He knows his only mention on the radio will be about his error in judgement. Steve had promised that he had checked and…

Something tumbles -- hollow metal on wood -- from the hallway. A shape curses, barely visible around the corner Cecil is forbidden to cross. The would-be reporter whimpers and the sound carries surprisingly far.

There is a pause before an arc of blinding light pierces across the veil of increasing dark. Cecil throws his fingers up to protect his eyes and realizes belatedly that the only thing that has protected him from whatever the mirrors threaten is the darkness. 

“TURN IT OFF!” he shrieks, and for a moment that lasts for too long Cecil remains illuminated. He is subject to the whims of this stranger. He is an obvious target trapped between two places that he cannot go and a stranger with unknown intentions has Cecil at his or her or its mercy...

The light lingers, then drifts on the peripherals of Cecil’s squinting sight lines before a click finally interrupts the building silence of the room and plunges Cecil’s world into darkness.

“Are you okay?”

Cecil sees spots and falls back against the dirty wall. He cannot recognize the voice over the sound of his heart in his ears. He points at the hallway and the stranger and stammers, “Mirror. I can’t...don’t…”

He can make out a person turning -- its shape and white color trying to glow ethereal in the dominating shadows and failing. The stranger reaches to his or her or its right and pushes at something and for a moment, Cecil sees a reflection reflecting and chokes on a sound as he cringes away.

The stranger stops. “It’s just a mirror.”

“I can’t...be in...see myself…”

“Like an allergy?”

He shakes his head violently. First no, then yes. He doesn’t know. Mother never told him and he’s ventured close to them before without experiencing so much terror. Perhaps it is the house, Cecil thinks. Maybe his sense of dread relates to Steve’s betrayal. 

“Can I cover it?” asks the other. “Will that help?”

Cecil nods, his fingers stretching over his eyes and his panic rising like a wave. This fear will crash down and he’ll ride it out and either be alive or not alive at the end. Now he feels exactly like he had on Street Cleaning Day.

“Okay. Done. Can I turn my flashlight on again?”

Cecil nods again, peering up from his cowering. This time the transistor radio blooms into vivid light and black-blue shadows explode behind it. The other person is kind enough not to blind Cecil a second time. Instead, the person cautiously draws the beam of light across the littered floorboards between them to reveal a rectangular frame that has been covered with a white coat. The coat glows under the orb but no part of the mirror shines through. There are finger stains of grime and dust smearing parts of the fabric.

“Better?”

Cecil straightens. His back hurts but he gives a reassuring thumbs-up before stepping down the final few steps and cautiously approaching his helper.

“You’re that Palmer kid?”

Exhaling, Cecil bobs his head.

The other person is a boy. He looks older than Cecil, though not by much. He is taller with dark hair that puffs out badly in the humidity. He regards Cecil curiously. 

“Your name is on the tablets at City Hall. You’re supposed to be a reporter. Is that why you’re here?”

Cecil is getting used to nodding. He stares and says, “Yeah. And you?”

The other boy motions with his flashlight towards the hall, inviting Cecil to take the lead. He still stands close at Cecil’s shoulder. Intentionally meant or not, Cecil feels more secure. The off-hand way the boy speaks makes Cecil believe that this boy does not fear anything. 

“In a way, I’m here for the same reasons. I'm looking for answers too. I’m going to be a scientist. My name is Carlos.”

-

The remainder of sunlight is faint and it needs the Void to aid in preventing the constellations from pushing through. Cecil and Carlos linger outside of the house in a cacophony of insects and grass. 

“My friend Steve is up on the second floor,” Cecil informs his rescuer.

Carlos peers up at the dark outline of the building. “I guess I’ll go get him. I need to retrieve my labcoat.”

“I’d come too, but…”

“I understand,” Carlos says. “Mirrors, huh?”

Cecil shrugs, digging his hands into his pockets. He hates trying to explain it. He feels like a fool already -- being caught like that and being so uncharacteristically frightened. His nose is still runny but he refrains from sniffling. Instead, he says, “I don’t remember you from school.”

Carlos shrugs now. “I’m a few grades ahead of you, I think.”

Cecil makes a realization. “You’re in that science group that always takes those field trips!”

“That’s the one,” Carlos agrees. He is holding the beam of his flashlight ahead at the mouth of the house and small moths are starting to gather. “It got dark quicker than I anticipated. I think the sun is setting at unusual times.”

Straightening immediately, Cecil wonders if that could be true or if he has lost time. He will miss _Welcome to Night Vale_ if he is not careful. “I should go.”

“I’ll get your friend, then,” Carlos agrees. There is a distractedness in the older boy’s tone and Cecil is grateful for how little he is judged for abandoning everything. Cecil can judge himself, and maybe Steve can judge him tomorrow for failing to follow through with their expedition.

Still, Cecil is mad at Steve for lying about the mirrors. Cecil won’t always be able to count on strangers in labcoats to save him. 

With an awkward wave, Cecil turns his back on the strange house with its secrets and leaves it and Carlos behind. He prays to the gods that he does not miss Leonard Burton, and perhaps the sun really is setting at irregular times for Cecil discovers he has an hour to wait for _Welcome to Night Vale_ upon returning to his home.

His mother is absent but he fills the time telling the Faceless Old Woman about the scientist he has just met. She throws spoons at him so she’s probably very interested.

Leonard does in fact talk about the missing colours from the atmosphere today. If anyone sees or hears them -- they sound like wind chimes and maracas -- please carefully corner them with containers capable of holding ozone. Even the colours of the sky need to learn about the consequences of deviating from their assigned roles.

Cecil checks up on his house's stock of ozone-holding containers before bed.

He dreams in green of the inner components of Chinese transitioner radios.

-

The next day Steve refuses to talk to Cecil. Cecil refuses to talk to Steve. They sit through Biology and Cecil looks at the skeleton at the front of the room wondering if Carlos knows all of the names of the bones. He wonders about how many things Carlos knows. He wonders if there is merit to learning everything about everything. Cecil really can’t see the point of it, though if he knew things he would certainly talk about them.

Because Cecil will not speak to Steve until Steve apologizes first, Cecil spends lunch looking for someone else to eat with. He asks after the scientist kids and finds out that they left that morning on another trip.

Cecil eats alone but he is not angry.

-

Cecil sees Carlos again before the year is up. He is on his way to try a pizza from Big Rico’s when he comes across the someday-scientist crouching over a broken box. Carlos wears a frown and since Cecil needs to step over him, it becomes imperatively polite for Cecil to ask if Carlos would join him for a slice.

“Hmm? No thanks,” Carlos replies. He does flash a smile at the offer and his teeth are straight which makes Cecil want to ask if Carlos had to go through braces too. God, those were awful. “I need to fix this.”

The box is certainly in many pieces.

“What happened?”

“Michael Sandereaux happened,” Carlos growls. “I’m certain I can fix this, though.”

“What’s it do?” Cecil asks. He tries to imagine his new voice recorder being broken by someone like Steve, but Cecil can only imagine himself crying over such a travesty. Maybe committing his first municipally approved murder, even. But Carlos just looks annoyed. 

“It scans for materials,” Carlos mutters. “I want to take it to that house. Did you ever go back?”

Cecil shakes his head. He has no intentions to return to it, though Cecil also does not recall thinking about that house after leaving it either. Not once.

“I’m planning to go back. There’s still questions that aren’t answered.”

Cecil admires Carlos’ tenacity. Perhaps he should think over his refusal to return -- for journalistic integrity or something. Then his stomach growls and Cecil recalls the purpose of his walk. “Talk to you later?”

“Uh huh,” Carlos murmurs, still crouched and tinkering with his busted equipment.

They don’t cross paths again for a long time.

-

Cecil dreams of Carlos, sometimes. Or it is things that relate to the other boy. White labcoats caught on metal girders of radio towers, or pieces of flashlight beams guiding Cecil to horrific scenes that he talks about at night -- his words describing those horrors always wash up against the walls of his skull as if they were his whimpers against an old wood house. 

He doesn’t think much of the other boy during the day, what with his new internship keeping him occupied. But sometimes Cecil’s tasks bring him close to death or terrorizing things and in the worst moments the intern finds himself subconsciously waiting for a blinding light and a calm inquiry about his well being, spoken in an soft and oaky voice.

In time, Cecil Baldwin survives and takes up a position as a radio host. He hears that Carlos is one of Night Vale’s finest scientists and this does not surprise him. Often, Carlos and the Apache Tracker supply some of the best explanations regarding strange happenings around Night Vale. The two work together though Cecil does not understand their relationship. 

It is hard to make time to ask after Carlos or maybe arrange coffee with him between their busy schedules. He takes it for granted that the possibility still exists. A meet over pizza or a shared lunch under a tree.

Cecil is not at all sure what to think when the Sheriff herself appears at his desk one evening after his show and motions for him to allow her to black-bag his head.

“Did I...do something wrong?” Cecil asks cautiously.

She gives him a sympathetic stare and says, “It’s about Carlos the Scientist.”

Cecil hesitates and it is exactly the same hesitation from all those years ago. He is suddenly fourteen again, standing under the hollow gaze of a building. The same dread creeps in his belly. 

"Is everything okay?" He asks, betraying his confusion.

From behind, a bag drops over Cecil's head and he instinctively drops his wrists so that the police can bind them. They are uncommonly gentle.

A voice answers, "That is entirely up to you, Mr. Baldwin."

-

The bag is removed and Cecil blinks back light from a great deal of portable halogen lamps. He is in a room that is far too small to contain the number of people it currently holds. He shouldn’t admit that he knows this to be an interrogation room at the Sheriff’s office. The desk has been removed but the window and doorless enclosure is familiar to everyone in town. 

Beside Cecil is the Sheriff. He sees two other officers (one tall and one short), the mayor, Scout Master Harlan, three hooded figures (whom Cecil does not look at), a new member of town council (whom Cecil has not been introduced to), and one figure in a chair with a bag over his head. 

The figure is restrained, though Cecil is not as the Sheriff unties the radio host’s hands. Cecil does not ask who is in the chair as he rubs at his wrists. The dirty, damaged labcoat explains everything.

“I want it on the record,” the city councilman starts to say as Cecil orients himself. “That I think it is a bad idea to bring the media in on this.”

“I want it on the record,” Harlan mutters as he ignores Cecil’s arrival and continues to flip through a manual, “That you don’t want anyone involved in this and that’s going to lead to disaster.”

“I’m certain Mr. Baldwin is familiar with when to be a reporter and when to hold his tongue,” the mayor hisses. Her anger is directed at everyone present and nobody takes it personally.

Cecil glances at each of the speakers briefly before returning his attention to Carlos. The scientist sits without slouching, meaning he is conscious. He is relaxed though perhaps in a state of resignation. He straightens noticeably when Cecil finally clears his throat and inquires about whether Carlos has done anything wrong.

The room falls into silence, with ceased page-flipping and council members no longer grumbling. Even the hooded figures pause their humming. A pin could drop and all of the police could draw their weapons and destroy the pin through sound alone.

Pins can be frightening, so sharp and so tiny...

Pamela, who twitches as if she wishes to have someone drag the heavy wooden table back into the crowded room so that she could scratch at it, says, “Could someone please turn off the lights for Mr. Baldwin to see?”

The councilman trembles but the Sheriff says, “We’ve got the hooded figures. We are perfectly safe.”

Harlan steps to a panel and gives Cecil a pointed look before the entire room plunges into black.

Cecil sees spots. They blossom in his vision, making a galaxy of stars replace a collective of people. He smells sweat and hears the echo of breathing against the surface of a tarpaulin bag. The after-images from the halogens fade as he blinks and immediately, involuntarily, Cecil steps back at what reveals itself to him in the absence of those images. A face leers at him and it is uglier than anything Cecil could imagine. It has no body but hangs over the invisible confines of the room. It stares at Cecil and Cecil alone. It hates Cecil for reasons Cecil cannot understand. The skin crawls on the reporter’s arms and his back finds a wall as he waits -- for the first time in years -- for a flashlight and a kind voice to save him.

No light comes but Cecil does hear a voice. “Cecil? Are you okay? Someone tell me if he’s okay.”

The words are muffled but definitely Carlos’. 

A pop, and instantly the room explodes back into focus and the thing...that...face, it vanishes. Cecil can still feel it, though. His jaw hangs open and his eyes clench tight and Cecil is aware of many, many eyes upon him. The only eyes that do not stare belong to Carlos.

“What happened?” Cecil whines. He tries to stabilize his voice. He tries to forget what he has seen but it clings to him like a nosebleed staining his lips. “What is that?!”

Harlan holds out a page from his book. “Our best guess is Asag. Or something like Asag.”

Cecil takes the offered book mindlessly. 

“It’s a god, or a demon. Carlos and our Apache Tracker were investigating an abandoned house and something went wrong,” explains one of the Sheriff’s officers. “The Tracker used his magics to escape but failed to bring along the scientist. When we arrived we found Carlos. He has been possessed and is a Level One Contaminant.”

Cecil’s never heard of a Level One Contaminant but it sounds serious. He does not stop staring at the figure in the chair, who shifts or tenses in reaction to the story. Carlos is under that hood. Carlos is bound to that chair. The Apache Tracker is not present.

“We’re still trying to locate the Apache Tracker,” the shorter officer says.

“And we’re still trying to debate on what this possession can do or will do to our fair town,” Pamela adds. She is fidgeting with her palms now, picking at skin and wringing them into rawness.

Cecil draws his eyes down to the open book in his hands. There had once been a picture, though it has been coloured over in black, thick lines that rip pieces of page away. If the art had been anything like what Cecil had seen, he understands the sentiment completely. He shudders despite himself. 

There is a description in Harlan’s book. Asag is a demon described by Sumerians. Asag is ugly and horrible. It mates with mountains and uses the rocky offspring as soldiers. It has not been seen in thousands of years, having once been reportedly slain by an old deity who had used a special talking weapon. Cecil tries to think back on what else he knows about demon possessions.

“How is it bonding to Carlos?”

“Tattoos,” Harlan says. “We’ve let Carlos keep his labcoat to cover them. Removing them would be...difficult. They also move about constantly.”

The councilman interrupts, shouting to make sure he is heard. “I want to go on the record of repeating that I say we just kill the scientist.”

Cecil frowns, his eyes snapping up to gauge Carlos’ reaction at the outburst. Carlos does not react, though Pamela hisses at the speaker and Harlan snatches back his book to flap it in the man’s face. 

“We don’t know if that will vanquish the demon or let it loose once Carlos is dead and my boys aren’t ready or trained yet to deal with that possibility. Until the Tracker is found, we don’t know what magic is at work here and perhaps his spells have sealed the demon in Carlos the Scientist to protect this town!”

The Sheriff nods at Cecil’s side. “If killing everything were always the solution, our job would be a lot easier.”

“No offense meant, Carlos,” says the taller of the police officers. 

The figure in the chair shrugs one shoulder. That casual act alone gives Cecil an unexpected sense of happiness in the tense moment. It trickles into Cecil’s blood and blooms around him like an invisible shield. Here they are: important city officials and hooded figures, and everyone is scared. And Carlos, poor possessed Carlos, is not. Tied to a chair and unable to see. He is alone and perhaps betrayed by a friend while people are discussing his death. But Carlos is alright. Carlos is sure of his place, no matter how unpleasant...

Cecil can imagine the quiet way that Carlos may observe how scientists and interns do not live long lives. And how knowing this, Carlos will still be unable to stop following the questions just as a good intern will not cease his or her inquiries -- no matter where they lead or how dangerously they are hidden.

Cecil steps closer to the chair and says very boldly, “You brought me here. What can I do to help?”

-

“It’s a long shot,” Harlan admits.

“But Night Vale is founded on long shots,” Pamela adds. 

After a long pause, the councilman reluctantly shares, “We are working on a place to contain things like Asag or other deviant...problems that may arise. It is not completed yet and you are not going to know anything about it.”

Pamela rolls her eyes and continues expanding her scabs. Cecil almost wishes someone would bring the table back into the cramped room -- if only to give her something to destroy. “We will be informing you so you can inform the public about forbidding them on entering it or knowing about it. But that won’t be for at least a few more weeks or months. Maybe it is never going to happen.”

“So until we can contain it there, if we can at all, we need to subdue the demon and the only thing our sources tell us is that it took a sentient weapon that talks to have done it last time,” Harlan says. “We aren’t able to acquire Sharur, the mythical mace. My kids have tried. But you, Cecil, you are the Voice of Night Vale and we think we can jerry-rig a temporary means to keep Asag from fully possessing Carlos and expanding to bigger conquests with your cooperation.”

Cecil nods his understanding. He still doesn’t know how he fits in. “How is it manifesting?”

“In darkness, more sensitive individuals can be assaulted by the hideousness of the demon’s true form. But mainly, Asag will probably start to take over Carlos’ consciousness and make him seek out mountains to build an army.”

“Which,” Pamela interrupts quite harshly, “We know is foolish because mountains do not exist.”

“Mountains don’t exist,” the councilman quickly agrees, peering at Cecil with threatening, crazed eyes. 

“I’m in the room,” Carlos says from his chair. “Changing facts isn’t going to--”

The Sheriff herself steps forward and knocks the seated figure upside the head. Carlos swears and then falls silent. 

“Mountains don’t exist,” she tells him. “Everyone knows that.”

Carlos sighs begrudgingly and Cecil makes a mental note to forget about the mountains he has recently seen in Svitz. 

“So as the Voice of Night Vale, what am I expected to do to contain this thing?”

Harlan taps on the cover of his manual and says with some thought, “We can’t undo the tattoos on Carlos but I think we can transfer them. Tattoos are a brand that give the demon power, but on someone as powerful as the Voice, you might be able to control them.”

“I don’t have that much power,” Cecil argues. He is surprised by the curious looks that everyone (but Carlos) give to him at the admission. 

Harlan clears his throat before continuing. “It will be a lot of work on your part, Cecil. You’ll have to constantly reinforce the transfer to keep the demon from regaining control over Carlos. Perhaps a word or a phrase will be enough, but it will need to be regularly repeated. And the transfer itself could be difficult and traumatizing. It’s a lot to ask of you and we’ve decided to give you a choice.”

The councilman grunts unhappily.

A voice, much subdued, now says, “You don’t have to do anything, Cecil.”

Cecil looks at Carlos in the chair. He cannot see Carlos’ expression with the tarpaulin bag on but he imagines it must be much like his own expression had been upon finding the mirror on the stairwell. There is no way Steve Carlsberg could have missed seeing it, coming up those stairs. And Steve had assured Cecil that the house had been safe. If the Apache Tracker has such great magical powers, how did Carlos and the Tracker accidentally summon up a horrible demon to threaten the town?

The difference is that Steve’s mistake hadn’t put anyone but Cecil in danger. And here, Carlos is left asking an acquaintance -- a mild stranger -- to sacrifice things for him. And the worst case is that Carlos has inconvenienced or damned the whole town.

The demon is ugly. The demon is hideous and wretched and fowl. The demon is disgusting and gross, with tiny imperfections and sickening habits. It smells putrid, like human waste and decomposing life. It is awful and suddenly Cecil wonders why they still have the hood on Carlos.

Carlos knows where he is. He knows who is in the room with him. The hood is useless unless...

“Do it,” Cecil says. He commands it. It is an order. His Voice demands it, and with a softer, more assuring tone Cecil adds, “And we’ll use ‘perfect’ as a trigger-word.”

Several heads are nodding, almost on their own accord. 

Because today, mountains are no longer real. Cecil can say it and make it a fact.

And today, Carlos is perfect. Under that hood he has perfect hair and perfect teeth. He has a perfect jaw and a perfect coat. He is beautiful. 

He is so wonderful and beautiful and perfect that Cecil will fall in love instantly…

-

They are left alone in the room with the hooded figures. Carlos remains tied to his chair and covered while Cecil seats himself on a chair that the police have brought in. 

Cecil is told not to talk to the hooded figures. He is told that the tattoos will hurt and that the light needs to be off during the transfer. He is told that the figures will draw a blood circle so that Cecil will be safe. He just needs to speak up to make the figures stop. The radio host finds that the assurances are empty words changing nothing in his decision. 

As the circle starts to be created -- more complex and elaborate than any circle Cecil has ever seen -- Carlos asks, “Why would you do this?”

Cecil draws his feet under him, scrunching his toes in his loafers. His hands relax in his lap. “I don’t know,” he admits. “You saved me when we were kids, but I don’t think it’s that. I just...I want to.”

Carlos slides his feet -- red, dirty converse shoes -- under his chair too. The scientist sighs. “Well, thanks.”

A static hum alerts Cecil to prepare for the halogen lights to die. A hooded figure approaches into Cecil’s personal space while another does the same for Carlos. The third reaches for the panel and Cecil is not even tense when the world goes black.

-

“Carlos, you are perfect.”

Cecil tells the void between them. He stares directly at the most terrifying thing that looms over him and for a moment the concept of ‘perfect’ has no meaning. No things can be so wonderful in a world that will allow for this creature to exist. And still, Cecil says it again.

He sees the same hate directed at him. He feels it like arrows jutting through his core. Cecil Baldwin is the most despised thing to this awful being and the Voice’s lips quirk when he realizes why.

Fear.

Because ‘perfect’ is a word in Cecil’s arsenal and it is a word that does not belong to the beast. He gives the word to Carlos. He remembers the white labcoat on the day it had saved him. He remembers the way Carlos’ hair grows in the heat, sticking out in unruly directions. He loves the way Carlos’ hands pick at pieces of things, understanding their components. And Cecil recalls the rare smile Carlos gives at being invited somewhere, even when he’s busy and distracted. 

These are things that Carlos is. These are things that a small reporter has observed in the few encounters he has had with Carlos. This is the picture of a man who is perfect. Here is a man Cecil could fall in love with. This man is not allowed to be owned by a monster.

The monster, though, clings closer to the shining figure in the lab coat. It is possessive, but frightened. It promises to take things. Maybe those memories Cecil brandishes. The scientist will not remember any rescue, nor will broken tools on broken pavement be more important than pizza. There will be no history between the scientist and the town that wants to protect him. 

And Cecil asks after Carlos to warn him, but Carlos cannot hear. The demon will not allow it. So Cecil decides for him -- clinical and without emotion: like a scientist. Cecil tells himself that Night Vale is such a scientifically interesting place that Carlos will have something to look forward to, even if he cannot look back. The Voice commands the demon to touch only those memories, and the demon cannot now change the perfection of the personality beneath unless Cecil lets down his guard. And Cecil makes plans to reinforce that guard with the help of his beloved Night Vale. 

Every time that Cecil says that Carlos is perfect, it will be echoed by every citizen in the town. And the demon will be trapped until something can be done to remove it -- for mountains are its only escape and what a foolish thing the demon is, desiring after places that no longer exist.

There is power in Night Vale. And Asag has met it. Asag has been broken by it.

For a brief moment, Cecil also sees this as something that the Apache Tracker could have predicted. The Tracker could have known that Carlos was the only way to vanquish the demon in order to save the most lives.

If Cecil allows for Carlos to forget the Tracker too, perhaps it is out of his own selfishness. But everyone knows the Apache Tracker’s magics are a sham anyhow…

The Apache Tracker is an ignorant, racist asshole.

Cecil says it, and it is so.

-

Cecil wakes, his head pounding. He is in a jail cell covered in bandages. Daylight streams through the barred-window. The Sheriff is playing a battle-robot game with a man wearing a tan jacket. The noise of popping plastic fists sends shooting pain through Cecil’s skull. He wonders who she is playing against when he looks away. It’s hard to be so annoying when one plays that game by oneself but the Sheriff is managing it.

“Mr. Baldwin, how are you feeling?” she asks when he groans. “We had a doctor look at you, but he had to take care of something happening at his bowling alley so he didn’t stay long.”

“I feel awful.”

“Might be the demon god you co-own,” she offers, helpfully. “You’ve also got tattoos on all parts of your body. They’ll be tender for a bit. Best not to move.”

Not moving is a very good idea. Cecil tries to remember some of the night before. He got back at Steve and...no...Steve had not been involved…

Cecil closes his eyes and it is there -- Asag. Smug and tiny, the demon is a blight on Cecil’s skin.

“Carlos…?”

“Carlos looks great,” the Sheriff says. “Perfect, actually.”

Cecil’s injuries burn at the report. It is a good feeling, though. It is not dissimilar to when someone talks about Cecil and his ears burn. Asag screams in the back of Cecil’s mind.

“He seemed confused at being here when he woke up,” continues the Sheriff. “Said something about putting a press conference together. Didn’t ask after you, though. I’m sorry Cecil.”

Cecil frowns, though he strangely does not feel sad. He turns his head to see the Sheriff leaning casually against the bars. “He doesn’t know me, but we'll reacquaint ourselves soon, I’m certain of it. I should probably go to that press conference. Could you let me out when you’re done with your robot game?”

She scowls as she reaches for her keys. “Why would I be playing a robot game by myself?”

It’s a good question that Cecil doesn’t have an answer for.

He unsteadily gets up, wincing at the bandages and how they pull at his new markings. He wonders what they will look like. When he feels a slight tremor of dread at the potential, Cecil allows himself to wonder about what Carlos will look like. The dread dies instantly.

Cecil leaves the station to squint up at a hot, hot sun. He is looking forward to finding the answers to these questions. He is looking forward to more than these questions. He is a reporter. 

It is not so different from being a scientist.

**Author's Note:**

> The evolution behind this idea and how it interrupted all of my other projects is a needlessly long and dorky story. Just take my word for it that Jessica is to blame. She also named the story. 
> 
> I put a lot of head-canon ideas into this. And then others slunk in. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoyed this and that any continuity errors can be justified by demons, time-travel, and the fact that you've been re-educated so many times that you are probably the mistaken one.
> 
> Corrections have been made. All thanks to the watchful eye of Miyamashi.


End file.
